


the other side of here

by mayyouwalk



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, diner au, open highways and late night conversations, truck driver au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 09:05:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11643333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayyouwalk/pseuds/mayyouwalk
Summary: Mickey drives trucks up and down the coast, but there's really only one place he looks forward to stopping.





	the other side of here

**Author's Note:**

> i had no intention of writing this. i wanted to finish one of the, oh, 19 other shameless fics i started, but, well. this happened instead. 
> 
> title from on & on by plts. any mistakes are mine, as the sum total of my truck driving knowledge consists of one conversation with a guy who used to do it.

There's a place off Route 2, a diner, near Rumford, Maine, and it has the best pecan pie in the whole country, as far as Mickey is concerned.

He makes a point to stop whenever he's doing a drop off in the area, will budget a little extra time around lunch to pull over and get himself situated on a stool at the counter. They don't serve beer, which is a shame, but probably for the best since he's usually still got a decent drive ahead. He gets coffee, instead, and coffee's coffee to Mickey, he's not finicky, but sometimes the guy that works here will put on a fresh brew for him.

"Twice in one week, I'm getting spoiled," the guy teases Mickey when he sees him, slapping a cleaning rag over his shoulder.

Mickey grunts, can't help the way the corners of his mouth twitch up. "Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late," the guy chirps. He pulls a pencil out from behind his ear, pulls an order pad out from the pocket of his apron, makes a show of standing up straight and licking the tip of the pencil, holding it poised over the paper. Looks at Mickey all serious and eager. "What'll it be?"

"You really fucking need to ask me this every time?" Mickey rolls his eyes; he's fine with being predictable, doesn't need the show.

The guy grins wide, winks. "Maybe I'm hoping you'll order off-menu one day."

These are the comments Mickey has no idea what to do with, that make the back of his neck heat and his fingers twitch. He tucks his hands under the counter and raises a cool eyebrow. "A coffee, a reuben, and a slice of -"

"Pecan pie," the guys finishes, shaking his head at Mickey ruefully. A lock of red hair flops forward out of his coif and he flicks it back. He scribbles Mickey's order down and places it on the line for the cook at the window. "Should think about changing it up one of these days, Mick."

"Hm," Mickey says. Then, before the guy can do more than widen his eyes, he reaches over the counter and adjusts the guy's name tag, so that the 'Ian' written in block font sits level. Mickey leans back. "I'll think about it."

\---

It's a Thursday, and it's fucking raining. The brakes on Mickey's rig decided to lock up on him, and the line for the showers at the first Pilot he’d been able to find parking at were long enough that he said fuck it and decided to wait til morning. He’s thanking whatever deity might be up there that today's route takes him past his favorite diner, because if he has to deal with any more shit he's gonna fucking slaughter someone.

"Rough day?" Ian is already sliding a plated piece of pecan and a black coffee over to him. "Reuben's coming, but I thought it might be a dessert first kind of day."

"You thought right." Mickey shovels a bite of the pie into his mouth and just barely holds back a moan. Ian smirks like he knows, anyway. "Remind me why I do this job again?"

"So you get to see my face on a fairly regular basis," Ian answers with a shrug. "Because you like traveling. Because it means you don't have to talk to people, but you like feeling like you're helping people when you make deliveries and pick up. Because you sort of hate your apartment and like that this keeps you away from it for so long."

Mickey's sitting frozen with another scoop of pie halfway to his face. "I told you all that?"

Ian smiles gently, tapping Mickey's plate. "Way to a man's heart. Plus, you get chatty after your second coffee.” He looks thoughtful for a moment, watching Mickey eat, pulls out his order pad and writes something down with a flourish. He rips the sheet off, folds it, and tucks it under Mickey's coffee cup.

Mickey ignores it until his sandwich comes, polishes that off too before finally reaching for the paper. When he does he waits patiently for Ian to finish refilling coffees for a couple at a booth and head back to Mickey behind the counter.

"Fuck's this?" Mickey says, holding up the paper, the scrawled phone number and an "I".

Ian shrugs. "Next time you're in town and need a place to shower. I know what a bitch the shower stall lines are."

"How's that?"

"Little birdie told me," Ian says. Mickey stares at him with a frown until Ian rolls his eyes. "Don't be weird about it, fuck, maybe I just don't like having to mop up the mud you track in here."

Mickey digs in his pocket and throws down a twenty, leaving without another word. If Ian sees him careful fold up the paper and slip it into his wallet, he doesn't call him on it.

\---

He doesn't intend to use the number, is the thing, but one day in late October he's in Maine, knows he's gonna have to spend the night in town, and, well. A shower with water that won't run cold sounds pretty nice right about then.

"I'm just finishing my shift, Mick," Ian says when he answers on the third ring. "Meet you outfront and I'll drive us over to my place."

Mickey pulls the phone away from his ear to stare at it in confusion, happy he pulled over to call Ian so he wasn't swerving around. "How'd you know it was me?"

"Please," Ian says, which isn't any kind of answer at all, then, "See you soon."

Fifteen minutes later, Mickey's parking the rig and dumping the load, clocking out just under his scheduled hours for the day, and walking over to the diner. Ian's standing under the neon ‘open 24 hrs’ sign with a backpack slung over one shoulder, smoking.

"Hey," he says on an exhale of smoke, holding out the cigarette to Mickey easily, like an old rhythm. Mickey hasn't smoked in months, not more than the occasional cigarette, but he takes a long drag now, savoring it. It's past 10 and dark out; the fluorescent lights from the diner window glow over Ian's face, making his skin look paler and his hair more dull orange than red. His eyes are still bright though, and Mickey catches himself staring. He blows a smoke ring, showing off, and flicks the stub away.

"Ready?" Ian says, pushing off the wall and walking without waiting for an answer. Mickey follows.

Ian doesn't live too far from the diner, actually. The trip in his beat-up Corolla takes less than 10 minutes. Mickey trails after him into a shabby yet clean apartment building, then into a shabby yet clean studio apartment. Ian slings his backpack down by the front door with careless ease, directing Mickey to the bathroom.

The hot water only lasts Mickey approximately 2 minutes longer than it does at the truck stops, but the short time makes all the difference, and Mickey is sighing happily when he pushes back the shower curtain, shaking his hair out. He'd used whatever fruity shampoo Ian had had in there, and now he knew what he sometimes caught whiffs of in the diner when Ian leaned over the counter or breezed by on his way to another table, hand brushing over Mickey's back for the barest of moments.

Mickey wraps a towel around his waist and steps out of the bathroom. Ian's sitting on the couch, a beer and a glass of water on the coffee table in front of him, TV on low. He looks up when Mickey comes out and Mickey watches a slow smile spread across his features. It's a good look.

"Hey," Ian says, for the second time that night. He lifts his hand, crooks his fingers, beckoning, and Mickey goes without a thought. Ian leans forward when Mickey comes to stand in front of him, head just level with Mickey's waist, and looks up at Mickey. He puts his hands on Mickey's hips, fingertips tucking between towel and skin. "Alright?"

Mickey exhales away the day, the truck, the constant motion of his life, pauses it all for this moment, here, and nods.

Ian's mouth on him feels like his first deep breath in a while, and before he knows it he's gasping and rocking his hips forward. Later, when Mickey drags Ian up and over to the mattress in the corner, he kisses him and swears Ian tastes sweeter than all manner of pies.

\---

There's a diner off Route 2 in Maine that Mickey decides feels more like home than any other place he's been his whole life. He's pretty sure that it's not just because of the pie.

"Hey stranger," Ian says, when Mickey walks through the door. He's glancing at Mickey, pouring coffee for another trucker at the counter. "Long time."

"Yeah," Mickey says, posting up on his stool. Ian's already moving towards him, coffee pot in hand. "Been away awhile. Getting a little tired of it, honestly."

"Yeah?" Ian pauses, looks at Mickey, gaze curious, open. Not happy, not yet, but Mickey's not worried.

"Yeah. Been thinking about Maine, actually. Might be nice to stay somewhere for a while."

Ian's grin is slow and wide and Mickey feels the back of his neck heat up, his fingers twitch.

"I hear Maine's nice this time of year." Ian reaches for his order pad and pencil, his eyes never leaving Mickey's. "So, what'll it be?"

Mickey shrugs, grins. "Surprise me."


End file.
